Home Shaped by Simplicity

When I began to build my house I learnt quickly that there is no end to expenses. Everything imaginable and even much that is not can be bought nowadays. It is peak consumerism, an endless parade of comforts that people chase as though enslaved to them. My thought was simpler. I wanted a modest and cheerful dwelling where only a few essentials found their place. A shelter that would guard me from the elements yet not cut me off from the living world outside.

So my house rose from stone, wood, and cement, plain in its making but sturdy enough to stand against the extremes of weather of the region. It does not gleam with marble nor boast expensive fixtures. Its beauty lies elsewhere, in sunlight falling through unadorned windows, in the scent of spices drifting from the kitchen, in the company of books whose pages carry the mustiness of time. It is neither spartan nor palatial.

The roof above me is all I need. It shields against snow and rain and offers shade from the harsh summer sun. Yet the house never seals me away from the seasons. In winter I wear woollens indoors, unlike in centrally heated rooms where the air feels curiously untouched by weather. That small choice, layering oneself rather than warming the entire house, feels truer to the rhythm of nature and lighter on the earth’s carbon footprint.

My home itself is furnished sparingly. There is little more than what is required yet nothing feels wanting. It is functional, comfortable and cosy, never a place to flaunt but always a place to return to. Perhaps it suits me because I spend much of my time outdoors beneath the trees, listening to the birds’ scattered notes, or wandering through my orchard on the narrow paths I have laid, stopping at places to sit and reflect, or caring for the flowers growing in the planters placed here and there. I spent my money on planters, a greenhouse, and garden furniture. On my to-buy list are some more items like a couple of hammocks, some more chairs, and maybe a swing too.

Inside, comfort comes not from show but from placement. A rocking chair that soaks in the afternoon sun during winters. A lamp that spreads its soft light across evenings. Windows framing the orchard where bulbuls and thrushes pause on their way through. Most of the bedrooms in my house face south, welcoming the low sun in the cold months. Unlike the guesthouses that turn rooms to the north for the spectacle of snow peaks, I have placed my desk there instead. While working I can look up at the valley and the distant summits, allowing the mind to breathe a little between tasks.

Even in upkeep I follow the quiet philosophy of Wabi Sabi. A patch of peeled paint need not be hidden at once, it can rest there as an honest part of the house’s story. The house breathes through its imperfections. The light filtering through the smallest cracks in the door, curtains stirring with the mountain breeze, the tapping of birds on the roof above. Sometimes when the rain falls hard, I love the sound of it drumming on the roof. It lulls me into a kind of gentle trance and often carries me into sleep. The younger generation even has a name for such things now, something they call ASMR, though I simply know it as the old and timeless comfort of rain.

And perhaps the greatest comfort lies not in what the house contains but in what it teaches. I enjoy life without depending on any particular thing. When I travel I do not miss my own material comforts, the lack of them never troubles me. What unsettles me instead is the opposite, the weight of excess, the overstuffed rooms of hotels, the polished consumerism in homes of friends. It is there amidst too much that I feel least at ease.

This house is no showpiece. It is lived in, warmed by laughter and by the steady passing of days. In a world that measures worth by what is new and shiny, my home stands quietly apart. It reminds me that comfort can be shaped from small things and happiness can be found in the simplest of moments. The glow of a lamp on a winter evening, the scent of coffee rising from the kitchen, the hush of wind moving through the trees outside, all weave together into a life that is both humble and abundant.

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